


The Outward Gift

by gwyneth rhys (gwyneth)



Category: Deadwood
Genre: F/F, Friendship, Gift Giving, Post Season 3, Post Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 17:41:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwyneth/pseuds/gwyneth%20rhys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unusual gift changes everything for Joanie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Outward Gift

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rustler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rustler/gifts).



Joanie Stubbs stared at the gargantuan cookstove again, glanced helplessly at Charlie Utter, and threw her hands up in the air.

“Well, I just don’t know what to do with it!” she said, her voice almost a wail. It was a beautiful thing, no doubt, but why would anyone give her a brand-new cooking stove, shipped all the way here to Deadwood from Chicago? That was strange enough as it was, but if Charlie wasn’t making a goose of her, she now also had a house to put the stove in.

“I’m pretty sure he hadn’t a ordered it with the notion of kicking off before it arrived,” Charlie said with what she was certain was wry amusement. Joanie wished she could find the humor in this, but it was safely out of sight.

“Guess that’s a big part of what I don’t understand,” Joanie snapped. “This is the queerest thing ever happened to me. You’re sure this is mine?”

The act of trying not to laugh only seemed to loose the floodgates, and Charlie bent over, body heaving in waves of guffaws. Finally he sat down on a bag of corn, and wiped his eyes. “Aw, you know, Miss Stubbs...I wouldn’t make fun of you. It’s all just so fucking quizzical.”

She pulled her skirts forward and plopped down on a crate next to him, and folded her hands in her lap. “ _What_ is going _on_? You’re sure this ain’t just some elaborate prank, or Cy trying to get back at me some way?” Although she had to admit, the stove was a pretty blue, almost the color of the turquoise stone Jane Cannary kept in a pocket when she went out on the road, something Mr. Hickock had given her years ago. There was writing on the front of the oven that said Quick Meal, which almost made Joanie fall into hysterics herself--there wouldn’t be no quick meals coming off that thing if she was the one to use it.

“Mr. Ward, he’s the one representin’ George Wilson, came here looking to see the delivery as it was the final part of the estate he was to catalogue. That’s why he wants to see you. He didn’t know where you was at these days, seein’ as how Wilson saw you last at the Chez Amis. Said he was waiting for it so’s he could bring you everything at once. ‘The estate in totality.’ I promised him I’d pass along the message.”

Try as she might, Joanie couldn’t remember anything of importance regarding Mr. Wilson, anything that would give him to leave her such wealth. One fuck, some words exchanged at gambling, and a welcome to the Chez Amis were the extent of her dealings with him. He was a nice enough man, gave her his calling card to come have her picture made some time. How could that have earned her such a gift?

The thought briefly flickered through her mind that maybe this had something more to do with Jane, or even Cy Tolliver, than it was about her. Because she’d sure as hell fucked plenty of old geezers who were happy to shower her with tokens like jewelry or perfume, but she’d never had anyone gift her with household items from beyond the grave. Or a home to put ‘em in, to boot.

“Jane’s gonna laugh herself into a fit over the idea of me inheriting a cookstove.”

“Wonder what she’ll do about you inheriting a whole house.” Charlie shook his head. “Prob’ly send her hightailing it for the hills, far as she can get from the domestic fuckin’ normal.”

Joanie gave him the side-eye. It wasn’t like him to say such a callous thing in earnest; he must not be aware of what his words meant. He wasn’t capable of cutting you deep and tossing it off like he was telling you the weather. But he did know that Jane stayed with her now, even if he might not fully apprehend the affections underlying their arrangement.

“What could I ever do with a house, Mr. Utter?” He voice rose in plaintive fear, and she hated it, sounding so weak and incapable. For years she’d faced down Cy’s tornadolike rages, she’d had johns put guns to her head, she’d been beaten and fought back, and yet the idea of inheriting property turned her into a bowl of jelly. Had the misfortunates at the Chez Amis busted her spine, left her incapable of taking on such responsibilities again?

He considered her for a while before answering. “Well, the way I see it, Miss Stubbs, all your life you done for other people, ain’t you? You know a thing or two about taking care of folks, making them feel like they have a place.” Glancing back down at his hands, he said, “Maybe you could make it a rooming house. Seems there’s always people coming and going in this town would want to stay elsewhere than the few flea-bitten hotels we got in the center. Not everbody’d want to stay where that mealy-mouthed Farnum runs the show, before they get on their feet here in camp.”

“Can’t argue with that,” she said. Few people made her skin crawl the way Mr. Farnum did.

“And seems like unmarried ladies might like a safe place to stay--not many places for them to go where they feel homely like.”

“I reckon so. I’ve had enough of Shaughnessy’s bible-thumping and allegations to last a lifetime. The other day, I thought Jane was finally going to beat that weaselly chiseler down. And I don’t know that I would have stopped her!”

But...to run a place like that? That was a notion far above any picture she could have made for her life. Charlie Utter was right, though, as he almost always was, that running a rooming house wasn’t that much of a step beyond running girls in a brothel. The biggest difference might just be that she wouldn’t have to wash anybody’s snatch.

“Well, I guess if I’m the newest home owner in camp, I better go see the lawyer.”

Mr. Utter stood and put his hat back on, tipping the brim as she strode to the door. She reached out with an impulse that surprised even her, throwing her arms around him as he made strange choking noises and flailed hands around the area of the small of her back. Standing back, Joanie smiled warmly and nodded. Seemed like every time her life took some kind of strange turn lately, Mr. Utter would find a way to help her through it.

****

It was a mystery to Joanie why she still had a room at Shaughnessy’s. As she went up the stairs, she could feel his eyes follow her, waiting like a bobcat for something he could pronounce against. In her room, she pulled her gloves off and set her bag down, unpinned her hat and hung it on the post, looking around the cramped space she’d shared with Jane for a while now. A place to call her own again. The very idea of it set her belly doing flips--a place of her own, a real, true home, one she didn’t even need to fuck anyone to have.

It wasn’t that long ago she was running girls for Cy, despaired that she’d never be able to leave, despaired of whether she could leave. When she looked in a mirror, all she saw was the broke-down hopes creasing her face with worry, the loss of her own whorehouse, the weight of her failures and fears dragging her shoulders down.

But somehow Jane had brought her back up, made her feel safe, cared for, even with all her irascible sourness. Joanie couldn’t begin to predict how her friend would react to such a change in circumstances. Jane Cannary was not a creature of the indoors at the best of times, nor one to succumb to the pull of putting down roots.

As Joanie splashed water into the basin and rolled her sleeves up, Jane entered the room in a cloud of dust and foul language.

“What’s wrong?” Joanie asked, when she saw Jane’s red face. She had learned quickly that Jane had different types of red faces: one for fury where her eyes narrowed and darkened, one that showed how easily embarrassed she was, and a distinctively florid one for when she was drunk, the red of her cheeks the very color of her bloodshot eyes.

“Goddamn Charlie Utter!” she exclaimed and with the same ferocity as her words, tore her hat off and threw it across the room, whipping her coat off and throwing it down onto the chair, sending more dust up in a puff. “Laughing at me like I’m some kind of fucking circus entertainment. As if--as if he’s so fucking _high_ -falutin that he can look down that fucking lump of a tumor he calls a nose and laugh at me. I don’t even _know_ what he finds so almighty humorous, because his cocksucking majesty won’t _deign_ to inform me--“

“I know.” Joanie stepped in close to Jane and put her hands on Jane’s hips. But Jane most assuredly didn’t want to be gentled, and she took a half-step back, face all puckered up.

“Oh, now you’re fucking in on it too?” she asked, flapping her hands at Joanie before whirling around to grab her half-empty bottle of rye. “I’m a subject of fucking vexation and mockery from the only two people in this miserable place who’re my _dear acquaintances_ ”--she snorted derisively--“and who I’m fucking starting to believe are gulling me. Next you’ll inform me there’s a special handshake only the fucking _members_ of the _club_ are allowed to know.” Her scowl could peel the wallpaper from the room.

“No, Jane. I know why Mr. Utter was laughing. If it makes you feel better, he laughed at me, too. But Jane, something funny’s just happening, is all! Something amazing. And if anyone’s the cat’s paw, it’s me, not you. If it all turns out to be a prank, well...I’ll be the one with the face covered in egg.”

Jane peered at her with suspicion and hostility. She took a mouthful of the rye, then swiped at her mouth with the back of her dirty hand, leaving a streak of brown along her skin. Joan grabbed at the flannel near the basin and wetted it, wiping at Jane’s face. Normally Jane would push her hand away out of pique, but apparently she was just intrigued enough to allow the intrusion.

“Turns out,” Joanie said, “I have an inheritance. From someone I barely remember, in fact, but he left me a very unexpected gift when he died. Mr. Utter had it in his depot. Maybe you saw it.”

“And what, may I be so bold as to ask, in the _hell_ is so fucking funny about inheriting something?” Jane never really seemed to understand the desire for material possessions, let alone the giving and the getting of them.

“Well, it’s a cookstove. You might have seen it there.” She stepped away and set the flannel down, turning away from Jane. “Maybe Mr. Utter thinks it’s so funny because no one would look at me and think, ‘Why, there’s a lady could use a stove for making meals on.’ Me being just a whore and all, and not a very good one at that. He knows you’re not much more predisposed to homeliness than I am.”

“A stove,” Jane asked, incredulous. “Some swell has a time with you, can’t forget you, but he fetches you a stove when he dies? That’s some fucking bosh, right there.”

“Not just a stove, either, though that’s how the whole thing got started -- the stove just came in from Chicago, but the lawyer who’s overseeing Mr. Wilson’s estate came looking at the stove and Mr. Utter helped him find me.” Joanie sat down on the edge of the bed, looking up at Jane. “He left me his house, Jane. I don’t know why, and I don’t understand it all, but he didn’t have a family, and he wasn’t no kind of four-flusher, either. He was just a nice, lonely man who was building a house in the hope he could find himself a lady and settle down here. I didn’t have a reason to know him much beyond business, but he’s the one opened the photograph place outside the center.”

Jane gave a loud belch, and then muttered, “Well, if that don’t take the rag off the bush.”

“Don’t push out your horns, Jane. I didn’t have a special attachment. I swear it’s true I didn’t know him much. Mostly he was for the gambling, I think,” Joanie said. “He lost so much money one time, Cy made sure I was the one giving him something back. And then he came by the Chez Amis...one of the few ever did before... Well, you know.” It had never occurred to her that he’d come to see _her_ , that she could have made an impression on him, enough that he’d remember her in his will. “Hell, he could have been all roostered when he wrote the will and thought it’d be a funny play, is all.”

“Hmmph,” was all Jane could muster, and she turned away, grabbing up her jacket and hat, then scurried out the door.

For a heartbeat, Joanie didn’t know what to do. That familiar ache of despair rose up through her belly and into her chest, and she ran to the window, looking out to see which direction Jane was going. She caught only the briefest glimpse of the feathered hat as Jane rounded the corner of the building, heading, no doubt, to the place behind the schoolhouse she often liked to hide.

Throwing her wrap on, Joanie ran after Jane, ignoring Shaughnessy’s bleating. When she caught up to her, Jane already had her bottle tipped up, the liquor running down her throat.

“Jane.” Joanie said her name as tenderly as she could. At least there was no one else here, no Mose or the children or anyone else to hear her plead her case. “I didn’t court his favor, Jane, if that’s what you’re thinking. Just...I guess he thought I did a nice turn for him, and he just didn’t have anybody else in camp to leave it to. And I only want you to stay if you want to, or if there’s somewheres else in camp you want to go, well.”

“Camp, hell,” Jane groused. “This place is becoming a regular fucking town, what with people building hoity-fucking-toity houses on the hills, and--and buying fucking _cooking_ stoves from Chicago to furnish ‘em with. Or hiring lawyers to write wills! And don’t even fucking start me on bullies like that cocksucker Hearst, with his private fuckin’ nanny come to cook for him and buying hotels just so’s he could knock a hole in the wall!”

“Guess it is changing real fast on us, isn’t it? I guess...maybe that means we have to change with it?” Joanie put her hand over Jane’s, pulling the bottle down, and leaned in closer. “Anyways, Hearst’s gone now, and we can all breathe a little easier. Richardson told me that Mr. Hearst’s cook is deathly afraid of him and can’t hardly bear to look at him anymore.”

“Richardson! Richardson! What the _fuck_ are you doing talking to that beef-headed shit-for-brains? What do you do, you just go around chatting with the great fucking unwashed all over camp, now, ‘cause you’re some finefied bluestocking lady with time on your hands after your morning tea and fucking crumpets?”

“Now, Jane, there’s no call to be mean. He can’t help it if he’s feeble. Anymore’n you can help it that you’re a drunkard.” Joanie squeezed Jane’s wrist, though, just to make sure she knew it wasn’t said with disapproval.

Grumbling a little under her breath, Jane eventually looked at Joanie and softened her expression. “Well, you got a fucking point there. And I heard the same thing from the Nigger General. Told me that cook thinks Mr. Murdering Cocksucker Hearst killed her son. Her very own boy! What kind of a creature does that?”

“I don’t know, Jane. I been around a lot of evil men in my life, but I never figured out a one of them.”

Jane threw the empty bottle in the dirt, and twined her fingers through Joanie's before taking her hand away shyly, then they began walking back to the room.

“So, will you come with me to the house, then, at least just to see it?” Joanie asked. “I won’t ask you to stay for good, if you don’t want to, but I did tell you that you were welcome wherever I go.” The easiest way to settle Jane down was to ask for her help--she loved nothing more than to be useful to someone, even if it meant no drinking. “Besides, I got no idea what to do with that stove! I could use your advice.”

“Well, I do,” Jane said in a wistful tone as she walked next to Joanie. “Cooked and cleaned in a whorehouse in Fort Laramie. Most of the girls said I was pretty fucking good at it, too.”

“I didn’t know that, Jane. Didn’t know you’d been around a whorehouse before.”

“Well, that ain’t all I fucking done at one, either, but that’s in my goddamn past.” She pursed her lips, like the remembrance of it was a sour pickle.

“I ain’t one to judge.” Joanie lightly brushed her hand against Jane’s in a way she hoped no one could see if they happened to look their direction. “You could teach me how to cook proper for people, instead of just burning everything I touch.”

“I could still take deliveries for Charlie? Come and go as I fucking well please?”

“Of course. I ain’t asking you to change, Jane. Not for me. Just to help me out while I try my hand at something new. This gift...at first I thought it was a terrible thing, but now I wonder if maybe he was giving me something I didn’t know I needed, a gift of a place to be, a new person to be.”

“Son of a bitch,” Jane said wryly. “I was liking the one you already was.”

They walked up the stairs and into the room, where Joanie smiled and drew Jane in closer, kissing her cheek, her forehead, her lips.

****

“Well, get your wiggle on, Jane! It’s too cold out here!”

Jane had been dawdling all morning, hemming and hawing about stepping all the way in to the house. They had walked up the steps to the front door and Joanie had opened it, peering in, not sure what to expect -- maybe varmints could have got in during the time the house had sat idle. But it had all appeared to be fine. She’d walked in, the air cold and stale, the sun slanting in too brightly from the side windows, while Jane shifted and tip-toed at the threshold.

“What’d he die of?” she shouted in alarm. “You never fuckin’ said! I ain’t stepping in there if I’m gonna catch something that’ll kill me too.”

“Jane! You nursed this whole camp through the pox. You ain’t catching anything. Besides, his heart gave out. Just dropped dead like that--“ She slapped her hands together. Jane dropped her head at that and grudgingly came inside.

Some of Mr. Wu’s men were heaving the stove up toward the back door, maneuvering with boards and mules to keep it on the sled as they worked their way up. Joanie would have to buy more furnishings before they could go much further in her plans; what there was now offered only the minimum of human comfort. Single men had different needs than guests. But Joanie could put beds in all five of the rooms up the stairs, and the back parlor could easily be made into a bedroom for her and Jane. No more listening to that jackass Shaughnessy’s insults and insinuations.

“Once you get this place up and running,” Jane said, taking in the chandelier hanging from the dining room ceiling, “you’re gonna think me a pretty odd fucking stick.”

“No, I won’t,” Joanie said firmly. “You’re my good luck charm, Jane, is what you are. Since I met you, things got better for me.” She fluffed out the curtains in the sitting room, dust floating through the sunbeams.

Jane stared at the floor, all of a sudden shy and cheeks growing scarlet, and Joanie’s heart clutched in her chest. She didn’t know if Jane could ever love her, but it almost didn’t matter. Joanie cared enough for both of them. The man who’d left her this place may have been someone she’d barely known, but he’d given _both_ of them a gift.

“You’re even prettier when you’re happy,” Jane said. Then she snorted and glanced toward the kitchen. “Oh, hell, those cocksucking morons are putting a spoke in it already!” She ran to the kitchen, barking insults and orders as the men pushed the stove inside.

Joanie turned around and around, taking it all in, making herself dizzy with the joy. She’d never imagined having a home, someone to share it with. She not only had that now, she had a future, something bright and sparkling, like the sun that beamed through the window. Joanie wasn’t under any grand illusions that Jane would love her and stay forever. This house was the outward gift; the happiness she felt now was the inward gift inside her, one that might well last her till long after the house and the stove were gone.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Killa and Belmanoir for their help and advice.


End file.
